


Don't tell me how to live my life!

by ElodieTheFangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, No Romance, One Shot, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 14:44:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElodieTheFangirl/pseuds/ElodieTheFangirl
Summary: Prompt : "Don't tell me how to live my life!" " You're a ghost!"





	Don't tell me how to live my life!

He was a scientist. A man of reason and logic. His whole life, he believed that the only thing worth believing were the things he could proved. He laughed at the idea of an almighty god watching from somewhere in the sky. He mocked the fools who believed that things such as magic or ghosts were real.

No, Sherlock Holmes didn't have time to lose with such nonsense.

And yet, here he was, searching the internet for informations about ghosts. If his brother could see him now, and he probably could considering his nasty habit of putting cameras everywhere, he would probably laugh his big ass off. That jerk.

Hell, he would probably laugh himself if his situation wasn't so damn annoying.

It all started a few months back, shortly after his supposed death. He was trying to get some sleep when a strange noise reached his ears. It sounded like a breath, and he was on his feet instantly. Once the lights were on, he looked everywhere, including in the ceiling and the floor, which he made a hole in (Mycroft was paying for his hotel room anyway). Nothing. Not even a mic.

Convinced that what he heard wasn't the product of his imagination, he went back to bed, closed his eyes and focused on the silence around him.

There it was. That breath again. Taking his phone from the nightstand, he directed the light toward the room. Still nothing.

This charade went on the whole night. And the night after. And the one after that. After a week of disturbed sleep, Sherlock sat on his bed and, with a frightening calm, said with a clear voice.

"Whoever, or whatever is here, should come out of the shadows, this game has lasted long enough, don't you think? Just face me."

A short silence, interrupted only with the sound of his own hearbeats. Then, something appeared out of the blue before his eyes. That something quickly turned into a someone. A someone Sherlock thought long gone, and for good reasons. He was right in front of him when he shot himself.

"Did you miss me?"

His eyes quickly turned to every corner of the room, looking for something, anything that could explain this vision. He found none. Finally, he turned to his nemesis for answers.

"You're dead" Sherlock stated.

"And?" Moriarty answered matter-of-factly.

"That generally stops people from talking."

"Please, did you really think that a bullet in the head would prevent me from tormenting you?"

"I was hoping. Clearly, it was in vain. How do you do this?"

"How am I not dead you mean? Oh I am. You saw it yourself. I kind of exploded."

"I know, I had bits of you all over my coat, thank you about that by the way."

"You're welcome, I did it on purpose."

"You can't be here, so why are you?"

"It seems I'm trapped here because of some unfinished business."

"And that business is?"

"Why, ruining your life of course! Starting with your sleep, considering I can't do much more now."

"Let me give you some advice then. Stop bothering me, and try to behave like a normal person for once in your life, and just die. Go to Hell if such a thing exist, or just disappear. Both work for me."

Moriarty looked genuinely offended at that.

"Don't tell me how to live my life!" He looked like he was about to cross his arms and pout, and wasn't that almost as strange as seeing him after he shot himself.

"You're a ghost." Sherlock said exasperatedly with his please-stop-being-an-idiot voice. Which sounded a lot like his usual voice.

Moriarty huffed and disappeared without a word.

Things could have stopped there, but it was never so simple with Moriarty. It continued with small things. His phone disappearing and reappearing in strange places. His coat thrown into the dirt. His brother calling him and asking him why on earth did he sent him a video of cute little cats. Or, the worst of all, his tea being salted. That evil bastard.

So here he was, googling "how to get rid of a ghost" and almost slapping himself for asking such a thing.

After hours of fruitless research, his computer broke. So did his phone. And a voice behind him said :

"Did you miss me?"

 


End file.
